The American Dynasty
by The Cypress Scholar
Summary: In 2007, Jack Walker begins work on a farm in Mineral Town. Seventy five years later, the army lands on the island to finally deal with the last of his descendants. How did this state of affairs come about?


THE AMERICAN DYNASTY

A Harvest Moon fanfiction by Sima Hui.

Author's Notes: I must thank everyone who has read my previous works on this site. To you goes my heartfelt gratitude. Without you, I would not have had the courage to put this piece up.

Otherwise, I hope you enjoy it. It is different to your regular fanfiction and I think it is a testament to the versatility of the game that such different stories could come out of a simple farming sim. There will be many OCs as the story progresses, mainly because there aren't enough people in Harvest Moon to fill this story, but old favourites will still be there.

-----------Chapter One: The Old Man of Minnesota----------

There are many taboos in the world. One new one is prevalent across the whole of the so-called "United States". It is the newest taboo in civilization and it can be summed up in one simple sentence: _Don't mention the war._

No one mentions the war any more. In fact, no one mentions America any more; or at least not without a sympathetic sigh, a shake of the head and perhaps even a solitary tear for one who was left on the western continent; left to die in the defining event of the twenty-first century.

But for one man in Minnesota this taboo is null and void. He alone can speak of it, since he has every right to. He was _there_ when it all began. He may not be able to walk without the aid of a zimmer frame, but so God help him, he can speak of the war with a thunderous boom in his voice.

And today, Trisha Reddy is going to interview him live on national television.

She has come all the way from the capital in Salt Lake City to let his knowledge be passed on to the whole world. He was _there_. His name is Alan J. Anderson and he is a very old man.

The care home in which he has resided for the past ten years is busier than it has been in twenty years and people are rushing everywhere, getting things done and signing agreements. In the midst of it all, Alan Anderson sits in his favourite armchair, wearing a well-pressed suit and enjoying a glass of his favourite vintage. An attractive blonde woman is applying make-up to his wrinkled face and he takes advantage of her concentration to sneak a quick peek at her cleavage. He may be nearly a hundred years old, but he is a man and a dirty one at that.

Finally, the hustle and bustle dies away, the blonde make-up artist departs, much to the senior's annoyance and the cameras begin rolling.

"Thank you Donald," begins Trisha Reddy, pushing back her long, black hair, which hangs on the back of her equally black jacket, "I'm reporting here from a care home outside Minneapolis, Minnesota, where I am about to meet with ninety-seven year old Alan John Anderson who knew Jack Walker when they were in college. Mr. Anderson," she says to Alan, turning to him and sitting down on a wooden chair across from him, "It is an honour to meet you."

"Thank you very much Ms. Reddy," he replies, finishing the very last of his wine and setting the round glass down on the varnished table, "I'm happy to be able to tell you all that I know about Jack Walker."

As Trisha asks questions and Alan lucidly answers, forty million people are watching this rest home in Minnesota. They, too, want to know why what happened, did happen.

There are no easy answers. Even Alan cannot give the whole story. However, the story began a long, long, very long time ago, in a place several thousand miles and seventy-five years away.

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Seventy-five years earlier, there were no blood-red clouds over Minnesota. There were no taboos about war and there was definitely no sympathy for America in many parts of the world.

There were, however, two young men sharing a room on campus at a Californian college. It was a spring day in March and one of these two young men lay passed out on a bed, wearing no shirt and grasping an unopened bottle of whiskey. It had been another hard night partying; with drinking, carousing and other forms of merriment being the natural attraction for many. Yesterday was beautiful, but today was ugly, as one Jack Walker, student of Economics discovered.

He pushes himself into the apartment and slams the door behind him, palpitating and close to tears. The bang of the door woke up his half-naked roommate and he staggered into the kitchen to see what is happening.

"Oh hey there Jack," muttered Alan groggily, "What's up?"

Jack did not reply, but moaned quietly, holding his hand over his mouth tightly and blinking rapidly, trying to abate the mounting tears.

"What's wrong?" asked Alan, more concerned, trying to discover what had upset his friend so, "Why are you crying?"

Jack pulled his hand off his mouth, cleared his throat and forced two extremely difficult words out of his mouth.

"I failed," he whispered.

"Oh God," replied Alan, setting down the bottle in shock, "Oh Jesus, I'm so sorry Jack."

"One percent!" said Jack in utter disbelief, "One percent. That's all I failed by! How could I be so _stupid_!?"

"Look, Jack," consoled Alan, patting him on the shoulder, "You tried your hardest."

"No I didn't!" snapped Jack, slamming his hands on the kitchen table, "I could have studied more, but I didn't!"

"For God's sake," retorted Alan, "If you mean those Friday and Saturday nights…well everyone needs a break! You worked the hardest out of all of us and it's just damn bad luck that you failed!"

Jack seemed not to hear him. He just kept shaking his head and moaning, "One percent! If only I'd stayed in and studied…"

Alan retreated to the bedroom. Jack was in shock. What else could he do?

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That night was one of the worst of Jack Walker's whole life. His father had made sure of that. For years afterwards, his father Billy's voice, transmitted electronically across thousands of miles of phone lines, would haunt his deepest, darkest nightmares.

"_YOU FAILED!?_" he roared down the line, "_AFTER ALL THE MONEY WE PUT TOWARDS YOUR EDUCATION; THIS!?_"

"_Father_…" Jack had tried to explain.

"_I BET YOU JUST DALLIED DAY AFTER DAY, NOT DOING ANY WORK! THAT WOULD TYPICAL OF YOU, WOULDN'T IT?_"

"_Father, that's not true. I worked as hard as I could!_"

"_YOU LIE! IF YOU HAD, YOU WOULDN'T HAVE FAILED, WOULD YOU!?_"

"_I-I don't know why I failed…_"

"_You make me sick_," was the reply, spat across America, "_You always were a failure. You couldn't baseball, you didn't want to hunt. God damn you, you couldn't even get a proper education._"

Jack couldn't bring himself to reply.

"_Just go away, damn you_," his father had said, "_I never want to see you again. You're just… you're just a god damn failure._"

He had slammed down the phone and Jack was left alone, holding onto the receiver; just crying uncontrollably…

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It had been a relief when a letter came a week later; a letter that would change Jack's life forever. When Jack first read it, he had felt sorrow, but then, slowly, almost imperceptibly, a ray of hope began shining through the darkness.

Five days after the life-changing exam, a letter jumped through the gap in the door of the apartment. Alan picked it up first, because he was always the mail guy and besides, Jack had refused to leave the safety of the couch unless it was absolutely necessary. There, wrapped in a foetal position, he felt safe, protected, but still desperately unhappy.

"Jack," said Alan softly, "There's a letter for you."

Jack sat up and grabbed the letter, adding a token "Thank you" to his friend. Tearing it open, he leaned back and began to read. The handwriting was unfamiliar, but the first sentence left no doubt as to where it had come from:

_Dear Mr. Jack Walker,_

_It is with deep regret that I inform you that your grandfather, the well-loved Charles Walker, died on Monday of a cardiac arrest._

Jack clutched the letter to his heart. Another day, another heart-breaking disaster. He had always loved his grandfather, who was a kind man who did not mind listening to whatever nonsense a little boy had to say. He had been a far more reasonable and laid-back man than Jack's father and Jack had loved him for that simple matter. To Charles Walker, Jack was first and foremost a human being and never just a tool for prestige to be reflected onto the boy's father. That had been the key difference and it had always been the most important one. Brushing aside his tears, Jack read on:

_It was the express wish of Charles that his grandson should return and tend to his beloved farm after he died. Should you wish to accept this charge, the Mineral Town Council Board expects you to arrive within one month of your receiving this letter. If you do not or cannot wish to accept this charge, then please correspond all the same, so that we may take control of the matter._

_Yours faithfully,_

_Thomas Patterson, Mayor of Mineral Town, Mineral Island, Massachusetts._

Jack set down the letter. He was thinking, calculating. He had nowhere to go, he realised. He could not stay at college and he certainly could not go home. He had little money, no home support and did not have any qualifications or a job of any kind. Here in California, he was ultimately screwed.

But on the other side of America, on an offshore island, lay a golden opportunity. Sure, farming was not Jack's speciality, but he could learn with the help of books, friendly villagers and the little knowledge that he had gleaned from his grandfather, watching him in the fields all those years ago. He could rebuild his life; far, far away where nobody would ever find him.

It was settled. He would go to Mineral Town.

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The packing was fast and furious. As Alan attempted to plead his case, he had to dodge flying items of clothing thrown backwards by a hasty Jack.

"Jack, don't you think that this is a little hasty?" asked Alan.

"Nope," replied Jack airily.

"Why don't you wait here for a while and take the exam again?"

"Don't have any money for that."

"Well, my folks will put you up and you'll be able to take it again," tried Alan in desperation. He didn't want Jack running off to some distant farm on the emotional rebound from his defeats.

"Sorry Alan," answered Jack, getting up, putting everything messily into his suitcases and pushing them shut, "but I can't put them to that much trouble. Don't worry Alan," he consoled, smiling, "I'll be fine."

"But Jack," protested Alan, "It's such a change."

"Don't worry," repeated Jack, "I'll write you and let you know how I'm doing."

There was an uncomfortable silence for a few seconds and then Alan let himself fall into Jack's arms. The two men hugged each other for a few moments and then Alan finally acquiesced, "Go," he said, "Go and make us proud."

"I will" whispered Jack, "I will."

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"Did you ever see him again?" asks Trisha, in rapture at the recollections of this otherwise unremarkable man.

"Yes," replies the old Alan slowly, "Yes, we met once more, several years later…"

He hesitates for a moment.

"…but it is of no importance," he said finally, "Nothing really happened."

"Okay," replies Trisha softly, before raising her voice and finishing, "It was very nice to meet you Mr. Anderson and I hope you keep well."

"Thank you Trisha," he replies, "I hope you will too."

"Alright then," says Trisha, addressing the camera, "That's all for now folks. This is Trisha Reddy, from the St. Francis Xavier Rest Home outside Minneapolis; back to you in the studio Keith."

Now the cameras are gone. The care home bustles on in much the same way as it always has. But Alan Anderson still sits in the same chair with a new glass of wine and ruminates on his old friend.

"Jack Walker," he thinks aloud, "a farmer!"

He chortles to himself for a while, but one can detect a slight bitterness in his laugh. In the skies above, a fleet of American jet fighters streak across the sky, heading to the east, where a long, blackened streak of death and destruction lies. Railroads lie torn apart, roads destroyed and farmland laid to waste. Across the whole country, over eighty million Americans lie dead and those are the lucky few who can be accounted for.

"Jack Walker," repeats the old man of Minnesota, "a farmer… God damn you Billy Walker…"


End file.
